


The Journey of A Simple Ring

by Author376



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:09:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Ring or No Ring by Elsajeni: Dori's wedding band is not melted down and has a journey of its own to make before he sees it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journey of A Simple Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ring or No Ring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/643134) by [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni). 



> Inspired by Elsajeni's lovely Ring or No Ring, which you should probably read first as without it this makes less sense! ^_^.

Garian is not the most honest man you’ll meet, so when the graybeard stands, his head even with Garian’s high counter, and begins to lovingly describe the gold wedding band he’s trying to sell he knows what he’s seeing. It’s not the dwarven craftsmanship because the sizing on dwarven rings is odd with their short fat fingers on hard oversized hands, nope, what he’s seeing a _deal_. One doesn’t get to be a successful pawnbroker without knowing desperation when you smell it, and no dwarf would be parting with a piece of wedding jewelry if not for great need. So he lets the little man yammer on and waits to grab him by the balls and dicker him down.

To Garian’s great annoyance the dwarf has a brother, though, and by the way he bargains he’s a greater theif than most of the little town the pawnbroker lives in claims _him_ to be. Which, honestly, is saying something as Garian is not well liked? Whatever it may have said, though, in the end Garian is at least somewhat satisfied by the deal they work out. Names aren’t asked or given and Garian hands over the heavy bag of silver coin with no small reluctance before putting the ring away safely behind his counter.

At the end of the day Garian closes his shop and locks all the doors and gathers up the single gold earring he received the day before and the two broken chains that came to him earlier in the moon. Putting the ring with those things in a leather purse he slides the little bag down a thong hanging from his neck and with his meager treasures Garian the pawnbroker heads to the blacksmith to have the things melted down.

He knows nothing of the three dwarven brothers in their simple lodging, or the secret blame the youngest places on himself for being the burden he thinks forced his brother to sell his wedding ring. Nor, had Garian known, would he have cared.

It is a rough little town, and Garian has almost as much wisdom as he has public approval; which means very little at all. So he unwisely takes his treasures with him to the tavern for a drink. The smith will be there and Garian knows he’ll get a better deal if the man is in his cups.

While getting the old smith drunk Garian’s dour young apprentice slips in. A cuff about the head is delivered to the boy for being absent most of the day, but apologies are tendered when the boy whispers of a meeting with his cousin. Garian fancies himself a man of foresight and the pawnbrokerage has not been as successful as in years past. Bill’s cousin is a likely enough footpad and Garian agrees to purchase horses for a percentage of whatever the cousin and his “friends” make in their new venture in brigandage. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Dori’s careful to keep from touching the white ring around his left third finger. He’s not so much a fool that he doesn’t see his poor little Ori blaming himself. He tries to talk to the little one and tell him that there’s no cause for that, but it’s no use. Ori’s too much like their mother; sensitive and perceptive and clever, and Dori’s never been good with words.

Amli was so much better at that. They’d been talking about children when Ori’d been born; his mother’s last treasure. Amli had never conceived, though, and they’d both spoiled the boy as best as they were able… Until there was nothing left to spoil even princes, let alone displaced laborers from a fallen kingdom.

So Dori doesn’t touch the empty white circle of skin as it slowly darkens to the weathered consistency of his other fingers. Nor does he show that he mourns the loss of the token as he would the severing of a limb. There is no shame in what he did, and nothing has the power to take his memories from him beyond death.

Amli would understand.

And at night, if he dreams of her sitting across from him, the circle of garnets he’d fashioned for her in gold so long ago glinting from her own third left finger as she tells him so?

Well, that is no one’s business but his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You wanna’ cheat someone, Garian, you should’ve stayed behind your counter.” Varkt snorted and shook his head. “You’re not getting three such stout beasts off me for a half-bag of silver. Especially not _your_ silver.”

Garian was a big man, as pawnbrokers were want to be. Tall and gone fat with age and standing behind a counter all day Garian is used to intimidating those smaller than himself and doesn’t like Varkt the horse-trader one bit. 

“Are you impugning my honor?” Garian demands and the much smaller man snorts and then spits loudly into the trampled dirt of the paddock behind him.

“Can’t impugne what a man don’t got.” Varkt grinned sharply up at him.

Varkt hadn’t been well-thought of when he’d limped into the little town accompanied by a tall, dark, and grim man. The weary traveler in his dark cloak and with his long sword was not well thought of on his own. Rangers were well known to be a dangerous and shady folk themselves, and Varkt was as foreign as his name sounded.

More man than boy when he’d appeared in the town Varkt, son of no-one, was a lithe, dark little character with strange tip-tilted eyes and a swarthy face under ink-dark hair. That he was also lamed by nature and hobbled about on a club foot, well, that just said that the gods themselves had marked him for the unfit creature he was. If a few old widows had felt kind enough to feed the crippled, foreign lad and let him sleep in their pig sheds, well, more was the pity.

At least until he got a job in the inn’s pay stable. Never had any of the little town seen a being so skilled with horses, and within a year Varkt’s reputation had gone from shady to _eccentric_ and he’d become one of the most valued men in the community. No riding beast be it pony, donkey, mule, or horse was beyond his art and everyone soon brought theirs to him for training and happily received in return for very fair and reasonable wages an animal returned to them as docile as a puppy and as fit and fast as a swift spring breeze.

Varkt, for his part, had come into the world in a bad place and under a bad sign. It had been his _choice_ to leave that in search of a better life and he’d worked hard to find it. He counted himself lucky for the help he had received and considered himself honor-bound to return such help to all other honorable people in need.

Garian, unfortunately, was no man’s idea of honorable.

“There was an _inquiry_.” Garian protested stiffly, standing upright before the skinny little man in front of him and beginning to feel queer and uncomfortable being stared up at by that beady, dark gaze. “The innkeeper checked my silver himself and found nothing wanting in the mix.”

“I’m not the innkeeper.” Varkt snorted and waved a small, scarred hand and ducked underneath the fence, preparing to walk away. 

“I’ve gold.” Garian finally admitted in defeat and reluctantly offered the leather purse containing the broken necklaces and dwarven ring. “Though for this I should get every horse in here!”

“For the business you do you should get little but the business end of a bit of looped rope.” Varkt sneered up at the bigger man, but took the purse and upended it in his hand. 

The broken necklaces weren’t off good quality, but Varkt would admit they’d cover half the fair cost for the three horses that Garian wants. Varkt isn’t sure he wants to deal with the man, though, as he respects him not at all. At least that’s how he feels until a surprisingly solid piece of gold flips down onto his palm and sits there gleaming duly in the early winter light.

It’s a ring of peculiar size. It is too big for a woman’s graceful finger and too small for the hands of most men the ring is solid gold and without a stone set in it. In the light, though, Varkt turns the ring around a few times and notes the fine polish of the ring’s surface and the intricate details of sculpted edges. The pattern is foreign to Varkt, but considering far he went for a new start that only makes it more attractive in his eyes. 

“Dwarven make?” Varkt asks as he spies four jagged runes carved into the interior of the ring.

“Aye, got it from the dwarf himself just earlier today.” Garian jumps on his interest. “And a fine piece of workmanship too, I’d-.”

“For the two chains and the ring you can have the three horses,” Varkt offers and holds up a hand when the bigger man wants to dicker. “ _And_ I’ll throw in a mended saddle and bridle for each since you can’t want the beasts for yourself.”

Garian glowers suspiciously at him for that pronouncement, but they shake on the deal and Varkt fetches the horses and the gear for the pawnbroker. After that’s well and done and the horses at his stable – for he now has his own stable and his own yards for the horses he trains and breeds and sells – are settled he goes to the inn for a drink and a meeting with an old friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dori fears that he hadn’t thought of this as a risk to face when he gave his ring up, but now he must deal with it.

He is a widower and had been a wanderer for so long that he’d forgotten what it meant to be a desirable husband. He was certainly no catch before all was said and done, at least not to any but Amli. He’d never courted, nor wanted to court any but her; the thought alone made his skin crawl and his blood boil.

Dwarves only loved once in their lives, but they loved true.

Ori was now a dwarf mostly grown, though, and Nori was… Well, Dori was forced to admit that his younger brother was off wherever he cared to be doing what he probably oughtn’t. Ori at least had taken a good job and had a good craft. For here in the Blue Mountains the folk of Erebor had finally settled down enough to be able to afford and appreciate scribes and their art again.

So it was that Ori came home to their quarters in the blue mountain every night ink spattered and smiling as he began the great work of rebuilding their people’s libraries and putting their histories on paper yet again. King Thorin himself had begun the task and given Ori the full pay and full responsibilities of a scribe rather than tacking him onto some master as an apprentice given Ori’s lack of full training and Dori would never forget his king that favor. For no matter how Ori deserved it he was not yet eighty and it was quite a favor to grant!

Dori himself had settled into his craft again. Not a weapon’s smith by trade, he’d always specialized in the making of mining equipment. Chains were his best skill and pulleys and such; all of which were much needed in this place where they dug iron and coal from hard, unwilling rock. 

Slowly their bare-hewn quarters had gained smoothed walls and traded rough benches for padded chairs and an oversufficiency of blankets to keep away the chill. Water was traded for good ale and plenty of food on the table, and Dori remembered what it was to be successful again. It was a pleasant feeling, if a bit lonely. Amli traveled with him in memory, though, and even as his mother’s scolding reminded him to keep the larder full Amli’s silver laugh and dancing eyes reminded him that a growing dwarf like their little Ori – for when his mother was not about to be jealous she had claimed Ori as hers as well – needed good, healthy, food and plenty of warm clothes.

The warm click of needles in Ori’s hands was a constant bittersweet pleasure for him. He remembered when Amli had taught the quick-fingered little badger how to knit, to keep him out of mischief. That he could still sit with a pint in the evening and hear the sound of needles clicking in the evening warmth was a balm on his soul; he had at least one more thing of Amli’s with him even if he lacked his ring.

It was the lack of the latter that drove him to scowling mightily at those around him and staying away from the halls and gathering places. Why, with as few as there were, he’d had to have garnered the attention of an unwed dwarf-woman in the first place he did not know, but if she didn’t seek a husband elsewhere soon he would join Nori on the road again!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well, Dunedaín?” Varkt grins brightly as he leans back against a sagging stone stile on a forgotten road to a once-great kingdom. “Was I right?”

“You were, though you could be so with less gloating and it would only improve the rightness.” The Ranger grinned down at the much shorter, smaller man and then sighed and turned his head away. “Besides, as good as it is to see thieves at the end of a rope, I have no joy in death.”

“So it is true?” Varkt closes his eyes and turns away, his sharp little face gone from hard to soft with grief at the Ranger’s nod.

“Aye, Arathorn is dead. Lost in a battle with orcs.”

Varkt took silent comfort that it was no Easterling who’d killed his friend, for Arathorn had been the one who had brought him out of bondage and misery in the East and offered him the chance for a new life. It stole the pleasure of catching the thief of a pawnbroker red-handed in funding the bandits away. It stole all the pleasure from the gift he had wanted to make as well.

For while Varkt’s hands were small enough that the heavy dwarven ring would have slid off of his fingers the long journey back from the East with his kingly Ranger guide had been made a shorter journey by friendship. Arathorn, son of kings, had been a kind enough man to save a crippled Easterling lad from a shaman’s sacrificial knife, but he’d had enough of a sense of humor to tease him for not being able to keep up with the longer man’s stride due to Varkt’s own short stride and crippled foot. Varkt had fought back on that journey with sharp comments about how slender and graceful the larger man’s hands were, and in the dwarven ring he’d seen a chance to strike a nerve and amuse them both next time his friend slipped through the little town on his way to whatever evil he now fought.

There would be no friendly banter now, and Varkt knew in his heart that he would never meet the man’s lovely wife or know whether or not his son had been born. With Arathorn’s death that knowledge would be too precious to share with one of his blood; not even if friendship and mutual suffering had assured the Dunedaín of Varkt’s loyalty. So Varkt bid the Ranger and his sad tidings well and reminding him that all his kin and kind were welcome at his stable and his house and would never need to go on foot while he had a horse left to give. 

Pausing on his way through the woods Varkt stood high in the saddle of his horse and offered an awkward prayer to the Valar he still feared as he left an offering underneath the stars for any fatherless king’s sons who might be wandering somewhere in the night. As he rode on a single glint of gold shined from a high branch in the starlight above the snow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dori bowed deeply to Dwalin, son of Fundin, and offered him any service in the future he might need as he ushered the larger dwarf out of the door. Quickly as he could he hurried back in and thanked Mahal and all that was holy in fire and forge that Nori had not gotten caught at anything this time. Dwalin finding his brother injured during a patrol of the hills was one thing; Dwalin finding Nori in the midst of some unlawful mischief was something else. Thorin Oakenshield’s Captain of the Guard was a hearty soul, but he was also fooled by little and harsh in his judgements. 

“You are a great idiot.” Dori muttered as he looked at his brother’s blood-matted hair and torn clothes.

Bless Ori for already putting a kettle on to boil and half-filling the basin with cold water while they waited. A gesture sent the boy scurrying off for cloths and gave Dori a chance to give his other younger brother a piece of his mind. Not to mention go through Nori’s secret pockets to make sure there was nothing incriminating lurking therein to be found later by a more thorough investigation.

In all the years that had passed, now, he almost didn’t notice the lack of gleaming gold on his wedding finger.

Almost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sirafalés sighed and paused to look over his shoulder as he sat upon the tall bay horse who had born him seven times already over mountains and meadows and rivers deep and wide. Seven journies he had made as Thranduíl’s long-distance messenger. Seven journies from the Greenwood to the Sea, passing through Rivendell and bringing their kin news of the shadow gathering in the south of their realm. 

Sirafalés was not sure whether or not he would return from the eighth journey. His people had never crossed the sea and he’d fancied it held no call on him after the first ride, but now he found himself lingering longer in the Gray Havens every journey. If his king was kind enough never to mention it, Sirafalés knew why; the answer was inevitable anyway.

Not today, though, the elf reminded himself. Not today would he choose to go backwards and trade swift beast for swifter boat. Today he would begin his long journey home and see his wife again. Yes, the gulls could cry in the ears of others for a while.

Standing in his stirrups Sirafalés blinked as he came eye-to-branch with a golden glimmer amidst the summer leaves. 

“Well, this is strange fruit for an ash tree.” The elf laughed in surprised as he reached up and began to untangle a golden ring from slender branches and new-grown leaves. “And left her some time by all evidence.”

With a skilled eye the elf looked over the ring.

“Stranger by the minute.” The elf’s silvery-blond hair skittered over his back and down his shoulders like an antsy doe in response to his quizzical head-tilt. “This is dwarven make, and of Erebor before the dragon no less!”

As he was alone and there was no other elf to mock him for it Sirafalés turned his horse around slowly so that he could look about for any dwarves wandering in search of lost jewelry. Finding none he looked up into the trees. At that even his horse balked; it was conduct far to ridiculous for an elf of sixteen-hundred years in age!

“Well, you are not wrong.” Sirafalés admitted sheepishly to both horse and the whispering laugh of the trees. “Dwarves don’t climb trees… Though how if they do not this got up there…”

Deciding to take his mystery to Rivendell with him, along with his little golden prize, Sirafalés put his horse into a trot and was off again, the sea behind him and home ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you not married, master dwarf?” An elven guard inquired one night, plate of food and flagon of water in hand as it peered into his cell. “I… recall you from before the dragon? I bought a silver chalice from you wife, I believe, for mine and…”

Dori sat silently in his cell, his hand hidden in a fold of his arms, and refused to answer.

He would not share his memories with this elf who held them prison and disrespected their king.

Where had this elf’s memories been when the skill of elven healers might have staved off the infection and fever that had taken his Amli from him in the wastes of the Withered Heath when Thranduíl had shut the road through Mirkwood to Erebor’s survivors? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Illya was a lad in love.

Unfortunately he was also a farmer’s second-son with nothing but a patch of ground to his name and a one-room log house. In time he’d have more land and more wealth, but though his first harvest had been good it was not so good as to allow him frills. What extra wealth he’d had had gone to the purchase of a new mule, a mostly grown bull, and a suitable length of cloth for a wedding dress.

His Essa would look like a queen in the fine blue wool, though, he thought. A queen of old who was taller and darker and finer than the men of Lake Town were used to at that! For Illya didn’t care at the mockery he’d received when he’d begun to court the local blacksmith’s daughter. Yes, she was a full head taller than him and as wide as he was through the shoulders, but in his eyes there was no beauty greater than her flashing smile or her large dark eyes peeking out through that waterfall of black hair. 

Essa would bring with her in marriage two cows, a heifer-calf, a new bed, a trunk of blankets, and all of the necessities of being a new wife that her family could provide. Not a rich dowry, that was true, but one gathered with love and given in good faith. In their future Essa would give him so much more anyway; years of help in all things and all the children the gods were willing to grant. 

Illya only wished he could give her more _now_. Essa’s father had provided a simple silver ring that he would wear the rest of his life, but Essa’s ring would have to wait for Illya himself to pay for it. Oh, damn his pride, if only…

The young farmer gave up his irritation and his sadness for a moment to go in search of dinner. It would be the last bachelor dinner he made for himself, so he might as well enjoy the laxity of its preparation. Essa would surely expect him to have his chores done and his face and hands washed when he sat at their table for dinner once they were married. If he was going fishing at dusk one last time he might as well enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sirafalés was hunting spiders with more of the king’s men when one dropped from above and sank its fangs into the back of his neck. Fight it off though he did the venom still took effect and he tumbled from his horse and into the river where he drowned. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Essa assumed he had hooked the grandsire of all trout when the line pulled taut, but the dead-weight on the end soon told him otherwise. Hoping merrily for a full barrel of something strong that had fallen from the docks in Lake Town he pulled the line taut quickly. What he found on the end of the line seemed an ill-omen indeed.

At least until he checked the dead elf’s pockets.

There in the palm of his hand sat a golden ring. Too small for his own fingers – which were short but broad – the ring was yet to wide for a normal woman’s hands. A normal woman, of course, not being the statuesque daughter of Lake Town’s giant of a blacksmith. Staring down at the gleaming golden band and its delicately patterned sides Essa said a hasty prayer over the elf’s body. The elf had no other weapons or valuables on him he’d have felt the need to return to the pointy-eared fellow’s kin so he went to get a spade.

“It’ll be our secret.” Essa told the body as he buried it, arranging the limbs respectfully and covering the elf’s face with his second-best handkerchief out of gratitude. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dori’s joints still ache and his back is stiff from the barrel ride, but at least the folk of Lake Town gave the king and his companions a _proper_ reception. Given a house to rest in and food and decent ale and wine, Dori felt a bit more kindly towards the proper outcome of their journey. At least until it was time to face Smaug; he still had no bloody idea how Thorin planned to kill the dragon.

Dori didn’t feel it mattered so much, though. Not as long as he could get Ori to run in time, keep an eye on Nori’s fool carcass, and get even one sword-swipe against the beast. Sure, he was as like as not to end up a pile of ash, but it would be a pile of ash that had gotten at least one strike in against Smaug the Terrible.

Smaug the Destroyer.

The cursed worm who’d taken his Amli from him.

Dori had gotten a great deal of his life back in the Blue Mountains, it was true. He’d gotten Ori settled and on his way to a good living. He’d even managed to keep Nori somewhat out of trouble for the last few years. He’d gotten new respect for his craft and made some kind of home for Ori.

But he’d never had his revenge, and though he didn’t fancy himself a great vengeance seeker like their king was he wanted his reckoning.

He wanted that beast to cry out in loss for treasure or health or whatever its cold heart cared for.

He wanted Smaug to _hurt_.

Because if he couldn’t have Amli back – and he could not – and his brothers were safe, well, there was little left in life Dori wanted for himself but revenge at least was something.

Dori was musing on that when a rap sounded at the front door to their abode. Dwalin was on guard duty so Dori stayed where he was and let the larger dwarf open the door and admit the young-looking – though, Lord, if Beorn ever sired a daughter she’d look like _that_! – human woman who was there. Though Dori was never much for telling Men apart she looked like the one who’d volunteered to do their washing and mending.

Sure enough, she came over to the table where he sat and began to set out their journey gear on the table, dividing it into neat stacks with large, unusually heavy and fine hands for any of her race. It was as he admired the broad palms and strong fingers of her hands that Dori’s heart skipped a painful beat and quite unwillingly one of his own hands shot out to grasp the girl’s left wrist.

“Where did you get that ring?” Dori heard himself demand only to wish a moment later that he’d never said nor seen a thing.

For now Thorin had roused himself from the brief rest he’d fallen into in front of the fire in the oversized chair he’d claimed earlier. Not only did their king get little enough rest, but Thorin’s piercing eyes took in Dori’s hand clasped over the girl’s wrist with obvious disapproval. 

“Dor-Dori!” Ori, bless him, saved the entire situation with a shocked gasp. “It’s your wedding ring!”

Over in the corner Dori dimly heard their Burglar’s sharp intake of breath over the surprised silence of the rest of the part. Nori especially looked gobsmacked.

“I – your - _Oh!_.” That young girl’s handsome face, with its proud nose and thick brows twisted in sudden distress as her right hand reached over to cover her left. 

Watching her young face crumple some part of Dori that had clucked at Ori’s skinned knees and hidden tears every now and then at the familiar patterns twisted into Ori’s yarn caught and he found himself turning the grip on her wrist into a gentle pat and taking her left hand in both of his.

“Now, no need to be scared, lass.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I meant no harm, I – well, I had need to put that aside years ago, but – you see my wife gave it to me on our wedding day.”

Had crafted it for him with her own two hands, Amli had crowed, and slid it home on his finger. She’d said the vows and he’d said the vows where he’d sworn only death would remove it from his hand…

“Oh, I – my husband, Essa.” The girl bit her lip, and went on shyly and couldn’t seem to help herself from running one long, blunt finger lovingly over the scalloped work on the ring’s edges. “He surprised me with it on our wedding day just a fortnight before you and your party arrived here, Master Dwarf.”

“And wherever did he find it?” Nori asked, seemingly affronted by the mystery.

The rest of the party just seemed worried by the omen. For a lost wedding ring to return again was quite an omen in dwarven culture, though whether it was good or ill would depend a great deal upon the girl’s answer.

“Well,” The poor girl looked trapped now, and so very young. Then again, being a child of man she’d be a _babe_ by dwarven standards, Dori realized, patting her hand again gently without knowing he did so. “He said he found it on a dead elf washed downriver… Though you won’t pass that around, will you?”

Somewhere behind it Thorin let out a bark of laughter and a general air of approval went up as all of the party took _that_ to be a good omen indeed. Or, perhaps, one should say all of the party save their Burlgar, who looked a tad sad at the statement. Not that the dwarves paid him any mind; their imprisonment was a bit too fresh on their minds to find his kindheartedness attractive where elves were concerned.

“Do you like it?” Dori found himself asking, his mind on the empty finger on his own hand and the weathered skin there and how soft the tops of the lass’s hands felt as he patted them.

“Oh, I love it!” The girl suddenly enthused. “It’s the most _beautiful_ thing I’ve ever had!”

And the light in her dark eyes as she smiled at him looked down rather than up at him, and the color was wrong and the face not right, nor even her race correct. In that moment, though, Dori saw Amli smiling at him as he slipped garnets on her finger.

“Bu-but if it is yours Master Dwarf, you should take it.” The girl went on bravely, moving to slide the ring off of her strong, beautiful hands. 

“Oh, no dear, that’s fine.” Dori said, unashamed of the tears in his eyes as she smiled up at her and patted her hand. “Wear it in good health. I’ll have plenty of gold rings once the dragon’s dead, hmm?”

The girl bowed awkwardly to him and thanked him several times, and made sure he knew he was welcome in her and her husband’s home anytime, before Nori ushered her out the door. And if, as the other dwarves set out towards the mountain they took Dori’s smile and better humor to be a sign of a good omen well-taken to heart, well, that was alright by him. He would admit that knowing at least one of Thranduíl’s elves rotted unknown in an unmarked grave as his Amli had been forced to do in her simple stone grave in the Heath did him some good because he was a dwarf and it was only natural. 

Mostly, though, he hung onto the light in that human lass’ smile and that little piece of spring he’d found in a long, long, _long_ winter. Because just because his happiness was over, didn’t mean there was no more happiness to be found in the world, and in all of the many years of his long life Dori of Thorin’s Comanions never lacked for friends in the farmlands of Dale and Lake Town nor new children to worry for.

Though, of course, these tended to grow taller than him faster than he liked, but that was at least one annoying habit that wasn’t Mankind’s specific _fault_.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that Other Treasures to be Had has a sequel coming soon! This just ate my brain. It's not my fault either, I was _enabled!_


End file.
